


Crystalline Dreams

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Gifts, M/M, Romance, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 01:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has dreams of Draco Malfoy, dreams as intense as fire—and apparently only a crystal pendant to blame for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crystalline Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a 2012 Advent fic for lunakat. She asked for _Harry and Draco rarely cross paths however a gift from a secret santa causes a lonely harry to begin having powerfully realistic dreams of Draco at night. Harry begins stalking Draco in the hopes to understand why._

  
Harry twisted in the sheets, shaking his head. He knew that Draco Malfoy didn’t _really_ have that darkness in his eyes, or the silvery scars that ran down and around his chest in a pattern that made it look as though someone had flayed him. Snape had used the spell and the ointment that were supposed to reverse the scars, obscure them, make them not real. So he couldn’t look like that, and that meant he couldn’t be standing here in Harry’s bedroom staring at him.  
  
But he was there anyway, and his smile was something Harry didn’t want to face, so he closed his own eyes.  
  
“You can’t escape that way,” Malfoy whispered, his words as light as falling snowflakes. “Here. Touch me. Feel what you did to me.” He reached out, Harry knew he reached out, because the next instant his fingers closed around Harry’s hand and he jerked on it sharply. Harry found himself pulled forwards, whether or not he wanted to be, and his fingers landed on the scars.  
  
They were ridged beneath his fingers, hard, but warm with a wonderful life. Harry remembered a book Hermione had lent him that said not everyone who got scars lost sensitivity in them, that some people had delicate skin above them instead.  
  
From the way Malfoy sucked in his breath and bowed his head, it seemed he was one of those people.  
  
“You made them,” Malfoy whispered, his mouth as hot and red as the flush that Harry could feel on his face. “You’re the right one to touch them, and _keep on_ touching them. Feel what you did.” He pulled Harry closer again.  
  
But this time, it wasn’t just revenge. His eyes said that, and his smile said that. Harry closed his eyes again.  
  
No hiding, no running away, not when Malfoy was kissing him with a bite here and a bite there, and Harry was shuddering and bringing his hands up in a feeble attempt to resist. Malfoy caught his hands with an easy twist and pinned them to the bed, and then pushed him back with his own hand in the center of Harry’s chest, where Harry would have taken scars if Malfoy had used _Sectumsempra_ on _him_.  
  
Harry fell back, because the warmth of that palm was an unanswerable push, and Malfoy crawled on top of him. He had scars everywhere, it seemed, or else how would the skin of his chest and belly dragged over Harry’s make them tingle so?  
  
Harry opened his eyes at some point, surrendering to the inevitable, and saw the way that the smile had deepened and infected all of Malfoy’s face, the greedy way he used to reach out and stroke down Harry’s shoulders, admiring the plunder he had taken for himself.  
  
 _Malfoy_ would _make love that way,_ the thought darted into Harry’s head. _He would act like it was his personal triumph if I lay down with him._  
  
Which made it all the more imperative to figure out why Harry was simply lying here and letting it happen…  
  
*  
  
And then he opened his eyes.  
  
Harry swallowed and pressed his hand over his forehead again, closing them. Painful rays of sunlight came through the dull curtains. He _knew_ it had been a mistake to buy a house with an east-facing bedroom.  
  
 _That’s torn it,_ he had to admit, after another few minutes of lying there and trying to pretend that the dream hadn’t made him hard. _Two dreams in a row could be a coincidence, but not three. And it’s all the fault of that damn pendant._  
  
He turned to look at the pendant, which hung from a chain above his bed. It was a small circle, made of transparent crystal, the bottom part of which was slightly darker than the top, as though someone had passed a shadow over it and frozen that inside the crystal. Through the top was a hole for the chain, which had come with the pendant. The chain had more ornamentation than the crystal itself did, since it was made of silver with a few letters carved into the sides. The letters said simply, _For you._  
  
Someone had sent it to Harry a week ago, wrapped in silver paper with a green bow on the top. Harry had snorted when he saw the paper, and harder when he saw what was inside it.  
  
He knew where it came from, if not who. The Ministry had assigned a bunch of people who worked in the various Departments to play gift-giver to each other, and someone had drawn his name and had not the slightest idea of what to send him. Or perhaps they had panicked and thought Harry Potter was rich enough to buy anything he wanted.  
  
 _Not happiness, or a family._  
  
So they had sent along something that they hoped was mysterious and beautiful enough to match the décor they no doubt imagined was all over his flat. Harry had accepted the gift and hung it up because he didn’t want his gift-giver to feel ashamed, and made sure to hold it up to loud admiration when he received the package in the Ministry.  
  
The colors of the paper suggested a former Slytherin, but other than that, Harry had not the slightest idea where the thing came from. And now it was apparently giving him these strange dreams.  
  
 _I do_ not _want Draco Malfoy to make me touch his scars and then climb on top of me._  
  
Except when Harry glanced down between his legs, it seemed part of him wanted that very much indeed.  
  
Harry scowled and hopped out of bed to take a cold shower. More than likely the pendant had some sort of enchantment on it and was picking up and projecting the dreams to tease him, but it didn’t explain why it had picked Malfoy as the target. Harry hadn’t seen him to do more than nod at him in years, and then only because they both worked in the Ministry and certain geniuses—like the ones behind the plan to assign gift-givers to each other— _would_ decide that members from different parts of the Ministry should come to the parties.  
  
So. It was time to go to the source, as it were, and look for answers around Malfoy.  
  
But because Malfoy might not know any of the truth any more than Harry did, and because Hogwarts was in Harry’s mind as he showered, and because Harry doubted Malfoy _would_ tell him the truth outright if he _did_ know it, he decided that he wouldn’t ask directly, either. He would try following Malfoy about for a while, and see what came of it.  
  
*  
  
Harry frowned, and ducked out of sight for the third time that morning. Malfoy was harder to follow than he had thought.  
  
Of course, it could have been worse. If Malfoy had pursued that apprenticeship among the Unspeakables that people were talking about him doing a few years ago, then Harry could have faced the shut doors of the Department of Mysteries. And there were certain memories that he couldn’t bring himself to awaken. He would have thrown the bloody pendant away and endured the dreams if they continued.  
  
Instead, Malfoy worked for the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and Harry had never _met_ such a meddling bunch of people.  
  
As Malfoy moved through the Department—and so far he’d done nothing more than take a cup of tea and proceed towards his desk—people stopped and questioned him on reports he was writing. They shared gossip about diplomats and ambassadors and their retinues coming to visit Britain. They leaned close and murmured confidential things that made Malfoy smile and shake his head.  
  
And they looked at everyone who passed them as if Snape would be giving them an exam on the shape of their noses later.  
  
Harry _hated_ it. It didn’t help that his glamour, although it included charms that made people less interested in him, also resembled the faces of several people that those in the Department apparently knew. Already they’d called to Harry to slow down and chat with them, under the names of Bedivere, Arnold, and Rodger, and each time, Harry had to shake his head and mutter and hurry on, as if on an important mission. Sooner or later, he would meet someone who wouldn’t take no for an answer.  
  
At least Malfoy’s cubicle was just ahead.  
  
“Ah, Donald!”  
  
There was a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Malfoy was turning around curiously. Harry found himself pinned between the cheerful, French-accented wizard who was apparently convinced that he knew Harry and the sudden stare of Malfoy.  
  
The glamour held up, though. Harry knew that Malfoy would sneer and let his eyes slide away when he saw the red hair, and sure enough, he did, striding into his cubicle with a firm motion that seemed to proclaim his ability to do his job well in defiance of all Weasleys everywhere.  
  
The wizard behind him turned out to be a member of the French Wizarding Ambassador’s intimate circle, who believed that Harry was his assigned guide for the day. It took Harry forever to shake him off, and by the time he did, all his chances of spying on Malfoy were ruined.  
  
Maybe he should just give up. Surely the dreams couldn’t be _that_ bad.  
  
*  
  
Harry opened his eyes gasping from a dream where Malfoy had led him to the edge of a cliff, whispering that if they leaped off together, they could fly.  
  
And then he had tumbled backwards, and Harry had leaped after him without thinking about what he was doing, and Malfoy had wrapped his arms around Harry in midair and grown wings, and Harry had flown with him, while Malfoy made love to him with a single-minded dedication that left Harry’s sheets sticky when he woke up.  
  
Harry lay there and stared up at the glittering pendant, which was spinning from the impact of his head against the headboard when he woke with a shout.  
  
 _No._ He was going to figure this out, and why whoever had sent the stupid gift wanted him to dream of Malfoy in particular.  
  
*  
  
Spying on Malfoy in the Ministry hadn’t worked wonders, so this time Harry waited for him in a small sandwich shop where he knew Malfoy liked to go for lunch. He kept his head bowed and his glamour on, apparently absorbed in the thick book in front of him. It was one that Hermione had given him ages ago, about things to do with your life after a traumatic experience—like a war—but Harry hadn’t read it then and didn’t intend to now. He liked being an Auror just fine, thank you, and he was only having strange dreams now because whoever had given him the pendant was an idiot.  
  
Malfoy came through the door. Harry studied him warily from under his fringe as Malfoy ordered a sandwich and stood chattering with someone who had come in behind him.  
  
Malfoy was more attractive than he had been, that was for bloody sure. Harry reckoned learning to smile had done it. And Malfoy didn’t once mention Slytherin or “the Dark Lord” or “my father” when he was talking—flirting—with the brown-haired wizard who had entered the shop behind him, which surely added to it.  
  
 _He’s not a boy anymore._  
  
Something low down in Harry’s stomach unfolded in lazy agreement with that sentiment when Malfoy turned away from the counter with his sandwich. _Yes, indeed._ Malfoy looked far more fit and relaxed than he should.  
  
Harry froze a minute later. The _pendant_ was giving him those dreams! He didn’t _believe_ in them!  
  
Malfoy caught his eye, and seemed to believe Harry was staring because of some reason that had nothing to do with his good looks. He immediately straightened up and assumed a shade of the hauteur Harry had seen on him during school, but this time, it was obviously a shield, and Harry knew how to shelter behind shields, too.  
  
“Did you have something you wished to say to me?” he demanded.  
  
Harry could have shaken his head, could have walked away, could have done a lot of things which weren’t what he did next. But he ended up blinking and saying, “Not really. I was thinking that you—looked good.” He could feel the blush scorching his cheeks in the next moment, but at least he was blushing as the glamoured young man and not as Harry Potter.  
  
Malfoy stared at him. Then he reached up and touched his forehead as though he thought the shape of his face might have changed.  
  
Harry had done the same thing sometimes when people told him the scar looked good, not just a strange or disfigured part of him. The memory made him sympathetic enough that he blurted out, “No. Just the way you are. Not with anything changed. Don’t change anything.”  
  
Malfoy blinked at him, caught, off-balance. Harry didn’t know what he would have said, though, because he’d already embarrassed himself, and he got up, slapped some money down, and ran out of the shop as soon as he could. He hoped that his glamour was holding up under the searching glances he knew he was getting, from just not Malfoy but the other customers. Luckily, the Apparition point wasn’t far away.  
  
*  
  
“Listen to me. You’re beautiful.”  
  
Harry tried to pull his legs up to his chest, partially to hide the way Malfoy’s words affected his cock and partially because that would enable him to kick the git away, but Malfoy laid his hands on Harry’s knees and forced them down and apart. And once he did that, his eyes were so bright and greedy that Harry found himself letting them lie there.  
  
“You like those words,” Malfoy whispered, breath hot and steady. “You wish that other people said them more often, didn’t you? But you won’t ask for compliments, because you’re so afraid of coming off as conceited and arrogant.”  
  
He leaned closer and closer, and all Harry could think of was his breath and his hot lips and the heat in his eyes.  
  
“But I listened to them from you,” Malfoy whispered, in the moment before their lips met. “And that means you have to listen to them from me.”  
  
*  
  
Harry stepped into the jewelry shop and looked around uneasily for a moment. The pendants hanging from the ceiling on slender silver chains, like the one he’d had strung up over his bed, stirred and jangled and whispered, but he didn’t see anyone else human yet.  
  
Stalking Malfoy hadn’t paid off. Worse, the pendant was taking things that had happened in real life and incorporating them into his dreams now. Harry had had to go for a brisk walk this Saturday morning to get rid of the feelings that dream had given him.  
  
And then he had looked up and seen identical pendants hanging in the shop window. That let him know he _had_ to go inside, and at least see what they were and if the shopkeeper remembered selling that one to someone.  
  
“Can I help you?”  
  
The shopkeeper was there after all, a tall man with a long white beard and intense blue eyes. Harry took a deep breath, shook off his memories of Dumbledore, and pointed at a crystal pendant that looked exactly the like one he’d got, hole and all. “Someone sent me a pendant like that, and it’s been giving me these intense dreams about someone I hadn’t seen in a long time and never cared about before. Do you remember who you sold it to?”  
  
The shopkeeper jerked to a stop, and then said, “Well now. If you showed me whether you have a scar on your forehead, I could answer that question better.”  
  
Harry hesitated, but the man’s manner wasn’t really threatening. He swept his fringe up and away from the lightning bolt scar.  
  
The shopkeeper stared at him for long moments, until Harry was afraid that he was facing another crazy fan and thought of backing away and out the door. Then the shopkeeper nodded, almost dreamily. “Yes. You were the one he was dreaming about.”  
  
Harry blinked even harder, wondering how the man could see dreams—unless the pendants in the shop reflected them or something, when they were in the right mood. “Who?”  
  
“Draco Malfoy,” said the man, and reached out to tap a finger against the nearest pendant. It rang, small shivering echoes that pelted up and down the walls. “He came here to choose a gift for someone else, but he lingered and looked at the pendants for a long time, and held one while thinking about you. I saw the reflections of the memories and dreams in the pendant later. It had become attuned to him. That happens, sometimes. It makes them useless for anyone else.” He smiled slightly. “I sent it to the one it was destined for.”  
  
“But I thought it was a gift from someone at the Ministry!”  
  
The man looked at him patiently, and although the glint in his eyes was a little sharper than Dumbledore’s twinkle, he otherwise looked enough like him to make Harry catch his breath. “You were wrong.”  
  
Harry shook his head, but did think to ask, “Why didn’t Malfoy buy the pendant?”  
  
“I assume that he decided the price was too dear,” said the shopkeeper, spreading his hands. “I charge only what it costs me in time and labor and magic to make them. I should bill him the Galleons that were wasted when the pendant became attuned to him and could not be sold to anyone else. But perhaps not, if the dreams have come to you.”  
  
Harry shook his head a second time. “Why is telling you that enough to make you change your mind?”  
  
“I like happy endings,” said the shopkeeper. “And to see my treasures get to where they should go, although I must say that I never expected this ending.” He eyed Harry for a moment. “Why are you still here? No, the pendant won’t hurt you, but you won’t stop experiencing the dreams as long as you possess it, either. Go and speak to the one who’s _really_ behind my sending it to you.”  
  
Harry spent a long moment swallowing. But he had already made a beginning with Malfoy, hadn’t he? He had given him some compliments. He turned and walked out the door.  
  
*  
  
“Um. So that’s it.”  
  
Malfoy had let him in with nothing more than a slight paling of his face. Harry thought he had guessed that Harry was the glamoured young man who’d spoken to him yesterday. And he’d sat through Harry’s explanation of what had happened to the pendant without moving his lips. Harry glanced at him uneasily. He thought he’d explained it well, or as well as he could be expected to under the circumstances, and that Malfoy should have made some response now.  
  
Then he did. Malfoy covered his face with shaking hands, took in a deep breath that seemed to fill his lungs with more air than flowed through the room outside them, and stood up.  
  
Harry braced to be thrown out the door. No matter how reasonably he’d listened, Malfoy probably had recovered himself by now and would see no reason to let Harry stay.  
  
Malfoy halted in front of him, staring down at him. Harry looked up at him. “What are you going to do?” he asked without thinking, not sure if he’d even _willed_ himself to say something like that.  
  
“Accept that my dreams aren’t going away,” Malfoy whispered, sounding as if he was talking to himself. “Accept that—that there is always going to be part of me that wants to do _this_.”  
  
And he reached out and seized Harry’s arms, pulling him into a kiss so savage that Harry yelped, and lost the yelp against Malfoy’s lips.  
  
Malfoy worked fast. He had Harry’s shirt off before Harry thought about what he was doing, and he pushed Harry back against the couch and climbed on top of him. Other than taking an elbow in the stomach, Harry didn’t see much to complain about. He opened his mouth and lifted his head, and Malfoy’s hand reached down to his groin.  
  
For some reason, he didn’t take Harry’s trousers off. He just worked him fast, intensely, staring into his eyes all the while. When Harry whined at him, he leaned nearer and kissed him again. When Harry started to close his eyes, Malfoy gripped his chin and shook him slightly, and Harry opened them again in sheer surprise.  
  
So he was looking into Malfoy’s eyes when he came, and Malfoy followed a moment later, apparently from the experience of seeing him come, his face sleek and pointed and so _intent_ , like a hawk diving out of the sky. Harry leaned into his chest and said nothing, only listened to, and felt, Malfoy shuddering above him.  
  
“So,” Malfoy said, when long moments had passed and the sweat and other things were cooling between them.  
  
Harry licked his lips, found his throat dry, and said, “So.”  
  
“I suppose we try it and see how this works.” Malfoy’s hand moved restlessly up to Harry’s shoulder, then traveled along it lightly enough to raise the little hairs there. “Because that was only one dream, and I’m _not_ giving up the chance to make more come true.”  
  
Harry had to close his eyes. “I hoped you’d say that,” he whispered, and turned his head to kiss Malfoy’s still-clothed shoulder.  
  
 **The End.**


End file.
